Light of Eidon (Legends of the Guardian-King, Book 1)

by Karen Hancock

  The shiver ran through her again. No one had ever told her she was beautiful before. Not like this, anyway. There had been nothing dry and objective in that declaration. Even now his eyes burned into her own, stirring up that exasperating heat.

  She swallowed, then stepped back to glance again at the Esurhite. He still had the glass on them, as if he had known his patience would be rewarded. She backed into the shelter of Danarin’s screening form, hoping the movement looked casual. He wouldn’t dare to attack Windbird here, would he? Not in broad daylight with all these other vessels about.

  But … it was said that galleys like these owned the southland seas. That they prowled the mist-bound waters, boarding whatever ship they wished, taking whatever they wished, all at the great Beltha’adi’s behest. If so, how much power would Qarkeshanian authorities have over them?

  A sense of acute vulnerability washed through her.

  She lifted her chin, still unwilling that Danarin should see her unease. “Perhaps you are right. It is nearly time for dinner, anyway.” It was on her tongue to invite him to join her, a not irregular invitation, given their respective stations. She caught herself just in time, but he saw it all the same, dark eyes laughing into her own. With a hmph, she caught up her skirts and fled to her cabin, her man, Cooper, following silently.

  To her surprise it was Cooper who served her meal a little while later.

  “Where’s Doughty?” she demanded as he set the plate of boiled beef and biscuit before her. “Why isn’t Doughty serving?”

  “He’s ashore, milady,” Cooper said, standing tableside, army-erect, dark eyes straight ahead. He wore his graying hair and beard cropped short, military style, and though he was well into his forties, he was still strong and vigorous, a man whose life and duty had centered on the task of keeping her safe since her earliest childhood. “Procuring supplies, I believe,” he added. “Unless the captain’s got him looking for the prince, too.”

  “Oh.” She pushed at the stringy meat with her fork. “I don’t suppose there’s been any word or sign.”

  “No, ma’am.” They were under orders to bring her word immediately if there was, so this was no surprise.

  `And the Esurhites?”

  “Their master appears to have gone below.”

  “Or possibly ashore.”

  “I think not.”

  She frowned at the meat and pushed it again.

  “His men are keeping a close eye on us, milady. I would recommend you not venture on deck until Windbird’s crew returns.”

  She stifled a most unladylike curse and stabbed at the meat. “I can’t believe I’ve come all the way to Qarkeshan only to be held prisoner in my own cabin?”

  “Better that than the inside of one of those galleys.”

  She snorted bitterly. ‘As if that could be any worse than what I’ve already suffered at the hands of my dear husband.”

  His dark brows drew together. “It could and it would. Bad as Rennalf acted, he was restrained by the fact you are a princess of Kiriath.” He tilted his head toward the port bulkhead. “Those men would see you as only a slave, to use however they wish. I don’t think you even begin to comprehend what that would mean.”

  “Of course I comprehend it!”

  He cocked a dubious brow. “So you did notice the women standing on that beach today when you were sweeping it with the scope? Standing among the men, every bit as bare?”

  Heat flooded into her cheeks. She had seen them, just not really noticed them. Bad enough to think of Abramm out there.

  “I know what Rennalf did was inexcusable,” he murmured. “By the Flames, I know it! But it was nothing compared to what would happen to you in Esurhite hands.” He paused. `Are you aware the Brogai customarily share their women with any who guest in their homes?”

  Her entire face was flaming now, and she could no longer meet his eyes.

  After a moment he said softly, “Is that why you’re doing all this? To get away from him?”

  It was the wrong thing to say. Instant anger burned away her embarrassment, and she rounded on him fiercely.

  “Abramm has been sold into slavery, Cooper! How is it you keep forgetting that? How is it you keep forgetting that if I don’t free him, no one will? It has nothing to do with Rennalf!” She leaned away from the table, frowning up at him. “Why do you keep haranguing me about this? If you didn’t want to save Abramm, too, why didn’t you go straight to the king when I first told you my plans?”

  He wasn’t looking at her anymore, his swarthy face gone gray, short whiskers bristling over his jaw as he clenched his teeth. For a moment he looked almost stricken; then the blood rushed back into his face and anger knit his brow.

  It was a low blow she’d dealt him and she knew it. By rights he should have told the king-honor demanded it, and Cooper was nothing if not honorable. That he hadn’t clearly still played havoc with his conscience.

  She laid a hand on the man’s arm, drawing his eyes back to her. “We are going to rescue him, Coop. Kinlock will find him, and as soon as he does, we’ll head home and it will all have been worth it.”

  If anything the scowl deepened and his face went darker. As you say, milady.” He straightened his shoulders and returned his gaze to the stern window. “Will there be anything else?”

  She studied him a moment, rankled anew by his prickliness. “Yes. I’d like some more of my books. Peoples of the Southland, Gavilan’s History of Ophir, oh, and The Song of Gaishar Murin. I haven’t read that one in a while.”

  A crease formed between his brows. “Those are all packed away in the hold, milady. It’ll take hours-“

  “If you’re going to make me stay in this cabin, I need something to do. And I’ve read everything I have.”

  For a moment he hesitated, then sighed. “Very well. I’ll have one of the men-“

  “No, no, no? I don’t want those cretins going through my things? You know which crate it’s in, and you know what I’m looking for. I want you to do it.”

  He fixed her with a dark, suspicious gaze, reminding her just how well he knew her. “You’ll not be using this as an excuse to roam the decks, lass,” he warned.

  She returned her attention to the now cold food on her plate. “I’ll do whatever I wish, Cooper, and thank you to stop ordering me around. Now, please get the books.”

  She felt his scowl, but in a moment he was gone, closing the door quietly behind him.

  With a sigh she sat back from the table, dropping the fork and pushing the plate away.

  Cooper was a dear-far more a father than the king had been-and his strong arms had ever been available to a little girl in need of comfort. To the young woman, as well. She truly did not know what she would do without him.

  But his idiotic sulk was growing intolerable.

  She got up and went to the stern window, watching the ships bob and careen about the gray waves, wishing she might at least have a view of the shore. Nothing was going as she’d hoped, and she thought this waiting might drive her mad if it didn’t end soon. Where was Kinlock? He could’ve at least had the decency to send someone back with word. But, of course, that would mean one less man looking for Abramm.

  With a sigh she pushed off the bulkhead and flounced onto the narrow bench, depression seeping into her. It was Cooper’s talk of Rennalf, of course. Any reminder of that unhappy time awakened the old feelings of sorrow and shame and despair. Truly she had come here to rescue Abramm, but she couldn’t deny there were other, more complicated, motives at work.

  After all, the trip to Thilos was supposed to have solved all her problems-her womb made fertile and strong, her husband’s affections restored, the mistresses with their hateful bastards evicted from her home, the nasty whispers of unclean blood at long last silenced-yet she had abandoned it in a heartbeat when the opportunity arose. Yes, what she was doing was important-vital, even-but underneath it lay something darker, something Cooper had very nearly nailed.

  She’d spent seven year
s in the barren, windswept reaches of Balmark. Seven years rubbing shoulders with a people as cold as the land they inhabited. Perhaps, had she produced the expected heir in that first year, things would have been different. But she had not.

  In fact, during the entire seven years, she’d conceived only twice, and neither child survived to term. After each loss her husband took a mistress. The first gave him an unwanted daughter, the second, ten months after Carissa’s most recent loss, a son. The precious, long-awaited, first-born son of Rennalf, Earl of Balmark. Never mind he wasn’t legitimate. A son was a son, and what a celebration there’d been-bells tolling, horns blasting, people cheering. The dancing and singing and feasting lasted nearly a week….

  Meanwhile, Carissa found herself shunned, disdained, answering to the now revered mistress, and caring for the bastard son like a common nanny.

  No one back in Springerlan knew the whole of it. It would have started a war. More than that, it was all too … humiliating. Besides, Raynen’s similar troubles producing an heir made her wonder if the gossips weren’t right, if maybe the House of Kalladorne was cursed.

  She had contemplated suicide in the dark days after that birth-thought of walking out into the wasteland surrounding the castle and letting it suck the life from her. She could have become one of the lost souls searching the barrens for victims to haunt. Certainly she had enough sorrow to qualify, and it would be no struggle to find a candidate worthy of her attention.

  Returning to Springerlan had been a last grab at life. And when she’d arrived, when Raynen had approached her with his plans for Abramm, it was like being reborn. She had not known till then how deeply she mournedand resented-losing Abramm to the holy men, how fiercely she’d come to hate the Mataio for what it had done to her family, and especially what it had made of her twin. More than life itself, she’d wanted him to see its hypocrisy and evil.

  Yet nothing had gone as she’d hoped. And though the decision to rescue him had been largely impulse at the time, she saw now the deeper, darker reasons. Balmark held nothing for her; she did not believe even a son would change that. And with Raynen on the road to madness, Kiriath offered precious little, either. The only person she really cared about and who-she hoped-still cared about her was headed for a life of slavery in Qarkeshan. A pawn, like her, to be used and cast aside at the whims of others.

  Well, she wanted no more of being a pawn. Perhaps the plan was mad, but it was her plan. And when they found Abramm, she would make him see the truth, make him see that neither the Mataio nor Kiriath held anything for him. Together they would mold new lives for themselves, unshackled from duty and politics and scheming monarchs, free at last to choose their own fates instead of bowing to those chosen by others?

  Galvanized by the vision welling within her, she leapt up and began pacing, restless and impatient as never before. When the knock came, she was so certain it was Kinlock back with news of Abramm, so beside herself with eagerness, she flung the door open without a thought.

  Danarin stood on the threshold, looming over her, his face fixed with a cold, hard look that sent an icicle of fear jabbing through her excitement.

  “Milady,” he said, “you have a visitor.”

  He moved into the room, forcing her to step back. A broad-chested figure in purple followed him. As the stranger entered, Carissa recognized the hatchet-faced Esurhite from the galley anchored beside them and nearly choked.

  The Brogai crescent scar gleamed on his pockmarked cheek and gold honor rings ran up the side of his left ear in number too great to count. Though he stood no taller than she, he bristled with aggression and confidence, and she saw in him a man accustomed to having what he wanted.

  She turned to Danarin, aghast. Why had he let this man aboard? Why had he brought him to her very cabin?

  Danarin wore no expression. “This is Katahn,” he said. “He is a dealer in fabrics and jewels.”

  The newcomer smiled, but the expression did not ease her. “I understand,” he said in flawless Kiriathan, “that you are seeking a man who may have been recently auctioned-tall, blond, aristocratic. With very blue eyes.”

  Sudden interest eclipsed her fear. “You’ve seen him?”

  The Esurhite shrugged. “The description fits many who come through this market, but I think perhaps I have. In fact, I nearly bought him myself for a scribe.”

  Wariness tempered her hope. She withdrew to the sectioned table, then turned to him, fingers resting lightly on the waxed wood. “How can you be sure, if the description of him was so common?”

  Katahn laughed. “Because I have looked upon your face, my lady, and the resemblance is plain. What is he to you? Brother?”

  “What he is to me is none of your affair?” she snapped. Then, in a smoother voice, “What do you know of him?”

  “I know where he is, for one.”

  When he did not go on, Carissa cocked a brow. “Well?”

  “In Qarkeshan, information is a valuable commodity.”

  “I see.” She considered a moment, then went to her sea chest and drew out a blue purse. “I’ll give you twenty Kiriathan sovereigns.”

  “Thirty.”

  She studied him, annoyed, but reminding herself it was the way of these southlanders ever to bargain. “Twenty-five.”

  He grinned and held out his hand. As she clinked the coins into his palm, he said, “Your brother was given to Ekonissima.”

  `And who is that?”

  “The Goddess of the Sea, my lady, patron goddess of Qarkeshan. The slaver was in need of a blessing, so he gave him to her temple.” Katahn hesitated, studying her keenly. “It doesn’t happen often, but they do make dalloi of grown men. Or he could function as a consort.”

  “Consort? You mean…” Carissa shook her head. “No. Abramm would never do that. He’s taken vows of celibacy.”

  “Abramm, is it?” Katahn’s dark eyes glittered. He looked like a snake in a quail’s nest, and Carissa cursed her wagging tongue. “He’s the fifth son, is he not? A long way from the throne. No wonder he entered your religious orders.” His eyes bored into her own.

  Aghast and alarmed to realize how much she’d just revealed, she turned from him and walked to the table. “We were discussing the Temple of Ekonissima?”

  `Ah yes. If he refuses the position of consort, they will undoubtedly make him dalloi.”

  “Which is?”

  “One of the temple eunuchs, my lady.”

  She choked and swayed against the table.

  “If I act quickly, I might free him unharmed, however,” Katahn said. “For a fee, of course.”

  “We can free him ourselves, thank you,” said Danarin, with a sternness that untracked Carissa from her thoughts of Abramm and sent them back to her suspicions regarding the Thilosian.

  The jewel trader smiled. “I doubt that, sir. I intend no offense, but the goddess does not sell back gifts. You will have to steal him. It would take time for you to learn the layout of the temple, where he is being kept, the arcane safeguards, of which there are many. By that time-“

  “How much do you want?” Carissa interrupted.

  Danarin gaped at her.

  “A thousand of your sovereigns now,” Katahn said. “Two thousand when I return with him.”

  “Three thousand sovereigns?” cried Danarin. “You’re a thief and nothing more. I say you haven’t seen him at all and only mean to trick us.”

  Katahn glanced at Carissa. “He has a mole on his … uh. Hmph. You probably haven’t seen that one. How about the scar that angles across his left shoulder, like so.” He moved a hand in demonstration.

  Carissa frowned. “Gillard gave him that when he was ten.”

  Katahn favored her with a courtly nod, his eyes flickering with odd intensity.

  Danarin turned to her in protest. “Milady, we needn’t give in to this robber’s wiles. We can free the prince ourselves.”

  “He was taken yesterday afternoon,” Katahn warned. “They may have already determined he
is not suitable consort material. You really haven’t much time.”

  A classic trick, that,” Danarin sneered. “Giving us no time to think or confirm the truth of what you say? Milady, wait for Kinlock. He’ll know best. Don’t let this scoundrel take your gold.”

  Carissa looked from one to the other of them, torn. She did not trust Katahn, though his claim was supported by his knowledge of Abramm’s scar. And if he spoke the truth, they had no time to spare in dispatching a rescue. But with only Danarin available to command it …

  No, if she had to choose between these two, she would pick the Esurhite. Already he had passed up the chance to buy Abramm. If she made this rescue worth his while, she saw no reason why he wouldn’t deliver.

  She exhaled sharply and turned to Katahn, fighting to keep the tremor out of her voice. “Very well. But don’t think I am so stupid as to give you one thousand sovereigns unearned. I’ll pay you four thousand-but only after you bring me my brother.”

  “How do I know if I can trust you?” Katahn countered.

  She smiled. “I suppose you don’t. But you came to me, after all. And you do have twenty-five pieces of my gold already.”

  His brows narrowed. “It will be dangerous.”

  “My paying you now would hardly make it less so.”

  He blinked. She saw acceptance come into his face. “You drive a hard bargain, my lady. I’ll need something to convince him I really do come at your behest, however. A ring perhaps?” He gestured at her signet, sparkling on her right hand.

  “Certainly not! You may take my earrings.” She unfastened the sapphire teardrops. Abramm gave them to me years ago. He should remember them.”

  Katahn continued to frown, looking hard at the earrings. Finally he opened his hand and took them from her. “We should be back around dawn. You must be ready to flee the moment you have him. Ekonissima does not look kindly upon thieves.”

  “We’ll be ready, sir.”